


touch me (i want you to)

by melstar



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst if you REALLY squint, Confessions, Exposure therapy, Falling In Love, Fluff, Lots of Touching, M/M, Miya Atsumu is a mess, Mysophobia, Pining, Post-Time Skip, atsumu is way less of a dick in this than i intended, bad metaphors, excessive metaphors, lots of pining, this is me venting/projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melstar/pseuds/melstar
Summary: He should have seen it coming, really. Spend six months tip-toeing around the line of domesticity with the team’s resident germaphobe, and there was no way he’d be able to think of the guy the same way anymore.or,Atsumu touches Sakusa's arm once and thus begins a downward spiral into the inescapable jaws of attraction.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 45
Kudos: 1044
Collections: ~SakuAtsu~





	touch me (i want you to)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uhhhcabbage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uhhhcabbage/gifts).



> Disclaimer that I know next to nothing about what it's like to have mysophobia and even less about exposure therapy treatment so I hope my depiction of this condition isn't offensive or excessively ignorant.
> 
> This is my first work for Haikyuu here, even though I've been in the fandom for four years. Sakuatsu really got my attention and I love their dynamic, so I tried to write something for it. It turned out a lot better than I expected, so I hope you enjoy reading it!

They're in the locker room when Sakusa approaches him. Practice went as usual, hours of sweaty skin slipping against the ball, the sound of it ricocheting through the gym as it smacks once into a hand and again into the floor. Today Atsumu had been working on purposely-skewed-timing quicks (he didn’t choose the name) with Bokuto. Everything was normal.

Until he's tying his shoes in front of his locker and suddenly a pristine bag is dropped on the bench beside him. He looks up at the bag's owner, to dark eyes peering down at him from over a surgical mask. Sakusa Kiyoomi stands over him with a contorted expression on his face, as if simply being this close to Atsumu disgusts him. But Atsumu figures he must want something, because Sakusa is usually gone before Atsumu can even change out of his practice clothes.

"What's up, Omi-kum?" he asks, putting on a loose grin.

Sakusa's eyebrow twitches, either from the nickname or the look on Atsumu's face. Probably both. Then suddenly he starts walking away, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Nothing. I've changed my mind."

"Woah, hang on," Atsumu doesn't reach out to stop him, but Sakusa turns back around anyway. "I was bein' serious. Yer never here this late."

Sakusa looks like he wants to say something, then glances around the room, and decides against it. His gaze returns to Atsumu, one shoe on and the other half-tied. He says, “Not here. It’s gross,” and spins on his heel, walking out the door and back into the gym. Atsumu can’t help but stare after him for a few seconds, until his brain catches up and reminds him that Sakusa meant for him to _follow_.

He finds Sakusa outside, standing on the curb in front of the gym. It’s still early evening, and the sun hangs high in the west. The late spring air feels dense in Atsumu’s lungs. He tells himself the tingling sensation in his fingertips is from the changing of the seasons, and not from the anticipation curling in his gut.

Sakusa leaves him to dwell in that feeling for nearly four minutes. He doesn’t count them.

"You know I hate touching people," Sakusa’s voice is the same as always: flat, but somehow rolling through the space between them, traveling twice the distance it should take to reach Atsumu.

Atsumu is well-acquainted with Sakusa's mysophobia. It's a physical barrier between the spiker and the rest of the world, a being that threatens destruction if you get too close. He almost snorts. "And people touching ya."

Sakusa nods, and then falls silent for another few minutes. Atsumu starts to wonder if he won't say anything else, that maybe he's changed his mind about having this conversation. He expects Sakusa to turn around and walk away from him. Instead, the spiker turns his head, eyes fixed on a point past Atsumu's left ear.

"I don't want to leave the team hanging anymore."

For a second Atsumu is confused, until he realizes Sakusa must be talking about _high fives_. After spikes, service aces, good digs, Shoyou or Tomas would always run up to Sakusa, arms raised for a double high five, only to be shot down with a look of disgust. Atsumu used to think it was disrespectful not to accept praise from their teammates, but he came to understand that that’s just how Sakusa is. It never crossed his mind that Sakusa would actually feel bad about it.

“That’s great, Omi-kun.” He hopes it sounds genuine. He hopes there’s no teasing tilt to the smile he gives him.

“But I can’t just start doing it,” Sakusa elaborates, “There’s too much sweat involved.”

“So, ya want to work up to it?”

Sakusa nods. He fiddles with the strap of his bag. It’s not like him to be uncertain about anything. Atsumu has always gotten the impression that Sakusa knows exactly what he wants and what to do to achieve it. But the fact that he seems nervous must mean this is important to him, and it’s reassuring to Atsumu to learn that Sakusa really does care about the Jackals.

So he’s cautious with his next question. Cautious because he doesn’t think he’s the kind of person Sakusa would ever even talk to if they weren’t on the same team. “Do ya want me to help?”

Sakusa looks over at him, but just as quickly rips his eyes away, so fast Atsumu almost misses it. The grip on his bag strap tightens. Sakusa nods again. Atsumu wonders if there’s a storm coming in, because there’s electricity in his lungs, spilling out into his mouth. He can taste it. It races across his tongue, escaping with his words.

“Okay,” he almost whispers, “What do ya want me to do?”

Sakusa finally turns to face him properly, and Atsumu is reminded for the nth time how strange the situation is. He’s never seen this kind of expression on Sakusa before. Granted, it’s not much different from how his face normally looks: mouth pressed into a firm line, eyes indifferent. But there’s something off about the set of Sakusa’s eyebrows that makes Atsumu think he somehow looks more accessible, more _tangible_. Like Atsumu could reach out and he would actually be right there.

“I don’t know,” Sakusa admits.

Now Atsumu nods. He runs a hand through his bleached hair. “Well, starting small… How ‘bout I touch yer arm?”

Sakusa tilts his head slightly, looks down at the sidewalk, then back up.

“Okay.”

He waits for Sakusa to roll up the sleeve of his jacket. Then, Atsumu reaches for him, slowly, giving Sakusa enough time to pull away if he decides he doesn’t want to go through with this. He doesn’t. Atsumu’s fingertips brush against the skin of his arm, and even though he hears a sharp inhale, Sakusa doesn’t recoil from the touch. When Atsumu glances up at him, he finds the spiker already looking at him. He dares to press harder, testing the waters. Sakusa simply stares at him, and before Atsumu can breathe, his palm meets skin, his fingers curled around Sakusa’s forearm.

They don’t say anything until Sakusa tells him to let go, and then they go their separate ways. Atsumu goes home with lightning bolts searing his right hand.

He touches Sakusa Kiyoomi’s arms a total of five more times before he’s allowed to try somewhere new. Within the few weeks of their arrangement, they’ve started meeting at Sakusa’s apartment instead of the sidewalk outside of their practice gym. Sakusa makes him shower and brush his teeth every time he comes over. It’s something Atsumu is starting to get used to.

They don’t talk about it around their teammates. As far as the guys are concerned, Atsumu is just as much of an annoying asshole as always, and Sakusa continues to ignore his provocative comments, dismissing him with a glare or cutting insults. They are as they always have been. Until Atsumu knocks on Sakusa’s door at seven in the evening and the spiker lets him in without a word. Atsumu makes his way to the bathroom, already ridding himself of his shoes and jacket. There’s always a clean towel and a change of clothes waiting for him on the sink. Sakusa never trusts him to bring his own things.

He’s sitting on the edge of the couch in a pair of Sakusa’s sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s embarrassingly a little too big for him, eyes glued to the Red Falcons game on the TV. Sakusa is perched on the other side of the couch, settled deep in the cushions. Atsumu is glad to have volleyball as a distraction on these days. Usually they’ll put on whatever game they missed during the previous day’s practice, discussing plays and analyzing other teams’ strategies. With the excitement of the match, it’s easier to ignore the absurdity of their situation. He tucks a leg under himself, turning toward the tempest brewing across the sea of clean linen from him.

“So what do ya want to try today, Omi-kun?” Atsumu drawls. Somewhere along the way, he rediscovered the insufferable teasing he uses to annoy Sakusa, after getting past the initial shock of the spiker’s request.

Sakusa doesn’t grace him with more than a grimace. “My hands.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up. This is unexpected. Sakusa sanitizes and washes his hands more in one day than Atsumu would in a whole week. Hands are undoubtedly the dirtiest extremity on the human body. There’s no telling what they’ve touched. Atsumu didn’t think he’d get to this so soon.

“Are ya sure?” he asks.

Sakusa faces him. His expression reveals nothing. He only moves his arm, and for a split second Atsumu entertains the thought that Sakusa is going to touch him, but the hand stops halfway between them, palm up. Atsumu stares at it; Sakusa stares at Atsumu. There’s an ache in Atsumu’s wrist, and he tries to dull it by seeking out Sakusa’s skin. He lays his fingertips over Sakusa’s, feeling a twitch in the spiker’s index finger.

Sakusa’s hands are rough, both from volleyball and from constant cleansing. Whereas Atsumu has mostly been spared from this fate except his fingertips from setting, Sakusa is always touching the ball with the whole surface of his hand, with the force of a bullet train rocketing through the Japanese countryside. Sakusa is a whirlwind on the court, and the years of weathering the storm have hardened his skin. Atsumu’s chest tightens.

Atsumu touches his hands, fingers falling over knuckles and tracing the lines of his palms, like a psychic telling his fortune. As if Sakusa would ever believe in that kind of stuff. Atsumu doesn’t look at him, but he can feel the weight of Sakusa’s eyes on his face, boring holes into his cheek. Even when Atsumu fits their palms together, Sakusa doesn’t tear his gaze away. Fingers slide idly past each other, and they’re not really holding hands, but they’re as close to it as Sakusa would allow.

The feeling in Atsumu’s gut is surprising. It’s not quite like feeling like he has to throw up, because if he’s being honest, that’s the last thing he wants to do. But it’s the same kind of pain he gets when he hasn’t eaten all day and the only thing he’s craving is one of Osamu’s onigiri. He feels empty, yet desperately yearning for something. His stomach is doing flips and he’s not sure if he can’t handle the nausea.

Now they hold hands when Atsumu comes over.

Atsumu had gone into this knowing he was going to be touching Sakusa often. What he didn’t account for is this new way his head spins, the way his stomach clenches, each time his skin comes into contact with the spiker’s. And he certainly can’t explain why his hand starts to itch during practices and games when Sakusa hits a perfect line shot or scores a service ace, barely holding back from reaching out to him.

The first person Sakusa high fives is Tomas, during spiking practice. The whole team is shocked. Bokuto drops the water bottle he was holding, then curses soon after and rushes to find a towel to mop it up. Meian asks Sakusa if he’s feeling alright. Tomas stares at his own hands like they’ve been graced by the gods above. Sakusa offers no explanation, but everyone sees his mouth tighten, a slight grimace climbing his features. This was enough for today.

Atsumu doesn’t notice that Sakusa had been the one to initiate the high five. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that Sakusa has never been the one to touch _him_ first. He doesn’t.

Sakusa insists the only obstacle to the high fives is sweat. It’s wet, slippery, and gross, and he very much does not like the way it feels on other people’s hands. Atsumu thinks his job is pretty much done, that once Sakusa jumps over this one hurdle, he won’t be disappointing their teammates anymore. He won’t need Atsumu to touch him anymore. The topic comes up one night, as they’re sitting on the couch, the cushions like a vast desert separating them.

“I’ve changed my mind.” Sakusa won’t make eye contact for more than a few seconds. He’s pulling at a thread on his hoodie. He’s uncertain. “Miya… I think I need your help still.”

Atsumu ignores the twist in his gut. “Like, with the high fives still? Or generally. ‘Cause I don’t know what yer thinkin’, Omi-kun.”

“Generally,” Sakusa responds.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Atsumu leans back on the armrest, pulling his legs up in front of him. He hugs his knees to his chest. Lets his head fall onto the back of the couch.

“Say, Omi-kun,” he tells the ceiling, “Why’re ya gettin’ _me_ to help ya?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, wouldn’t Shouyou-kun or Bokkun be better at this kinda thing? I really thought ya hated me.”

It’s quiet for a while, but Atsumu knows Sakusa will answer him. He always does, sooner or later. What hurts is the softness in his voice when he finally does speak.

“I was afraid they might come on a little too strong, since they’re so excitable.”

“Ya thought they might touch ya where ya weren’t ready to be touched. Yer probably right.”

“Yeah. And you three are closer to me than the other guys. I wanted it to be someone I’m comfortable with.”

A jolt of wildfire spreads through Atsumu’s chest, and it takes him a moment to realize the heat is mirrored on his hand. While he wasn’t looking, Sakusa had reached over and grasped Atsumu’s fingers in his own. A small smile plays on Sakusa’s lips as he guides their joined hands to the middle of the couch. And then he looks away, turning his attention to whatever game they have on the TV. Atsumu doesn’t know what teams are playing, but he can’t hear the announcer anyway. There’s a thump in his chest that, for once, he can’t ignore.

_Someone I’m comfortable with_.

That was the first time Sakusa had touched him.

After that, Atsumu’s touches roam to Sakusa’s shoulders, gliding over firm muscle and the fabric of his shirts. Sometimes, he gives Sakusa a massage after particularly strenuous days at practice. Because the prolonged press of his hands on the broad sweep of the spiker’s shoulders is probably a great method of exposure therapy. Not because he feels like digging his hands into Sakusa’s t-shirt brings him that much closer to the skin underneath. Not because every time he sees the tension drain out of Sakusa’s face, an unforgiving fist squeezes his heart, forcing it into overdrive.

Sometimes Atsumu lets Sakusa rub his fingers between rough hands, soothing the joints and pressing into worn calluses.

Six months after that day on the sidewalk, and Atsumu’s heart explodes. It happens when Sakusa sets a mug of hot tea in front of where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter. He hadn’t asked for it, but he’s thankful for it anyway. The day had brought them a stressful game, one lost on a failed setter dump. The other team’s blockers had seen right through Atsumu. So when he lets the tea burn his throat on the way down and when Sakusa tells him, “You look tired,” and takes one of Atsumu’s hands in both of his, Atsumu thinks he might burst into tears.

He should have seen it coming, really. Spend six months tip-toeing around the line of domesticity with the team’s resident germaphobe, and there was no way he’d be able to think of the guy the same way anymore.

And Sakusa looks so _concerned_ , and he’s brushing the stray bangs away from Atsumu’s forehead, and now it’s the lightning and the fire, the storm raging in Atsumu’s chest, on his skin, in the air around him. He desperately hopes Sakusa can’t feel the debris of Atsumu’s broken ribcage battering his body. Schooling his features into a lopsided grin doesn’t help; Sakusa sees right through him.

“‘M fine, Omi,” he sighs into the mug, “Just wanna sit for a while.”

When Sakusa sits on the center cushion, effectively cutting the linen sea in half, Atsumu knows there’s no going back to the way things were. Not when fingers intertwine with his and more drum a rhythm on the inside of his wrist. And not when, the moon plastered high above them, washing the room in a silver light, Sakusa lets him lay his head on his shoulder, drawing the maelstrom out one more time that night.

High fives start to come easy for Sakusa. At first, he obliged them in small increments, one or two a game. Then more frequently, until he starts letting Bokuto sling an arm around his shoulders, doesn’t wince at a slap on the back from Shion. Shouyou even gets a half-hug out of him once. Atsumu settles for high fives, though the smiles Sakusa sends him from across their side of the court are new.

Their teammates still don’t know that Atsumu has been helping Sakusa with his touch aversion for the past seven months. Atsumu isn’t sure at this point if they’ll ever tell them about it. Sakusa has never mentioned it, and Atsumu figures this whole thing rides on the spiker’s comfort level, so he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes he feels like his head will burst if he doesn't find someone to confide in, to unload all the thoughts swirling around in his mind on, but he keeps his characteristically loose lips sealed. And honestly, he thinks, if no one ever finds out, then this is one thing he can keep for himself, to hide from the world and indulge in when there’s no prying eyes there to catch him when he’s vulnerable.

No one but Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Even if Sakusa wouldn’t keep asking him over, Atsumu would go anyway. Nights when he can’t sleep because his hands are itching to the point they hurt, and he can’t get the image of dark curls out of his head and he thinks he can smell the scent of disinfecting wipes, the tempest would inevitably carry him to Sakusa’s door if he let it. He finds solace in linen cushions, citrus shampoo, and hot tea shared at the kitchen table in silence. He lets these things be his comfort when Sakusa’s marble skin is off-limits.

He wants to touch, to drag his fingers over the expanse of Sakusa’s body. He wants to bury his hands in black curls. He wants rough hands to touch him back, to settle on his cheek or his arms or (when he dares to think about it) his hips. He wants so badly it’s almost suffocating. But he keeps this want to himself, because not being able to touch at all would be even worse than choking to death on his own feelings.

Two more weeks pass, and now Sakusa asks him to touch his chest. Atsumu nearly spills his water.

“Ya want me to what?” he asks incredulously.

Sakusa takes a sip of coffee, still paying attention to the movie they have on. “You heard me.”

“Yeah, but…” he trails off.

“But what?” he can hear the smugness in Sakusa’s voice, even if it doesn’t show on his face.

“Nothin’.”

Sakusa turns toward him and Atsumu thinks, _this is really happening_ , before moving closer to sit on the center cushion.

Atsumu settles his hands on Sakusa’s shoulders, to be safe, before letting them slide down. The muscles of Sakusa’s chest are chiseled granite, smooth against Atsumu’s callused fingertips. Atsumu’s hands rise and fall to the beat of Sakusa’s breathing. He presses his palms flat against Sakusa’s pectorals. The spiker’s head tilts forward, dark hair falling over his eyes.

“Is this okay, Omi-kun?” Atsumu whispers.

The curls bounce once. _Yes_.

His fingers fit into the hollows of Sakusa’s collarbones, and he traces them through the fabric of the t-shirt. Atsumu’s skin feels like it’s on fire, and his mind rages with a tornado of unwanted thoughts. Thoughts of what Sakusa’s chest might look like _without_ the shirt on, if there’s more moles dusting his body, waiting to be connected by deft fingers looking to create a new constellation. Sakusa lays a hand over one of Atsumu’s, just to hold it there, while the other continues exploring. His thumb caresses the backs of each of Atsumu’s fingers, like he’s trying to memorize the cracks in every one of them.

Then Sakusa brings Atsumu’s hand up to his mouth, brushing lips over his knuckles, and a lightning bolt shatters Atsumu’s ribs like the trunk of a tree. He pulls back as if he’d been burned, hitting the armrest on the other side of the couch a lot faster and harder than he’d intended. And he immediately regrets it. Seeing Sakusa’s fingers hovering between them, his eyes wide, eyebrows scrunched together, provokes a pang in his chest more painful than any storm.

“Are you—” Sakusa starts.

“Omi.” Atsumu’s voice is unsteady, his breath coming in heavy drawls. Sakusa’s mouth shuts. “There’s somethin’ I have to tell ya.”

Sakusa drops his hand between them. Atsumu doesn’t reach for it.

“I think,” he mumbles, “I think I like ya.” And before Sakusa can say anything, Atsumu keeps talking, if only to delay what he knows is coming, those words he really does not want to hear. “I dunno when it started, but whenever I would touch ya, my damn gut would get all twisted and it got hard to breathe. And sometimes, during practice, when I see ya with the other guys, or when I'm alone at night, my hands would start itchin’ and I can’t stop thinkin’ about ya. And I know this is prob’ly the worst confession ya’ve ever gotten and I’m jus’... I’m sorry.”

Three seconds. Six seconds. Eight.

“Miya.”

Atsumu finally looks up. There’s a smile, of all things, on Sakusa’s face. The widest smile he’s ever seen on the spiker’s features. It’s beautiful and bright. How cruel.

“Why do you think I kept asking you to touch me, even after I was comfortable with high fives?” the dazzling smile mocks him.

“Because,” Atsumu’s mind works slowly. He wasn’t expecting an interview after that mess of a confession, “ya wanted to keep gettin’ over it?”

Sakusa takes his hand again. His touch is so tender and careful that Atsumu really might cry right there on his stupid germaphobe crush’s stupid clean linen couch at eleven o’clock at night.

“You’re insufferable. And annoying. And an idiot—”

“Ouch, Omi-kun—”

“And I think I might like you too.”

Atsumu’s jaw drops. Any gears that might have been turning in his head have come to a screeching halt. “Ya…”

Sakusa nods. “Yeah.”

Atsumu climbs back onto the center cushion. He can’t look away from Sakusa’s eyes. They’re pulling him in, drawing him closer than before, until their vast darkness is right in front of him, and has there always been specks of dark green laid in the backdrop of black? Before he can drown in the headwaters of Sakusa’s gaze, a hand on his cheek grounds him. Atsumu closes his eyes, and lets himself lean into the touch.

When Sakusa Kiyoomi finally kisses him, the storm clears, the fire subsides, and Atsumu is surrounded by thick forest, a salty breeze drawing him toward a deep, blue ocean.

It took Miya Atsumu six months to fall in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi, and another two to _finally_ do something about it.

(They tell their teammates the whole story three weeks later. Well, most of it.

Bokuto and Shion jump up and down in celebration. Tomas gives them a big smile and two thumbs up. Meian and Oliver say a few words of congratulations. Somehow, Shouyou already knew.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/bokutovbc?s=09) if you want to yell about sakuatsu or Bokuto Koutarou. I'm new there and I'd love to be friends!


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